Shalako (1962) (13 page)

He tasted the coffee. "It is good coffee, Irina. You continue to surprise me." Then he added, "The man has education, undoubtedly a military education."

It was her turn to be surprised. "I was not aware of that."

"The names of Vegetius, Saxe, and Jomini are not as familiar to you as to me, nor are they familiar to the average educated man. They speak of specialization."

"Hans said something to that effect, but he may merely have read the books."

"Possibly. As Harris has said, he is a puzzling man." He glanced at Irina. "And one not to underestimate in any respect."

Irina kept her eyes on the fire, a little startled by the implication. A few days ago she would have been merely amused at the implication that she might be interested in such a man as Shalako Carlin. Now she was no longer sure.

"If we are fortunate, Frederick, we will be far away from here in a few days. Then I doubt if we shall ever see him again ... or any of these people not of our own group."

"Perhaps." He sounded doubtful, and he was not a man to be uncertain of anything, especially of himself or any situation in which he was involved.

She pushed some sticks farther into the fire and watched the sparks fly upward. How much their lives had changed! Hans was dying... Frederick was less arrogant than at any time since she had known him... and she her self? Had she changed?

Von Hallstatt got his rifle and moved out to the perimeter of the camp, and Laura came to the fire from Kreuger's bedside.

"He's asleep, I think. Sometimes it is hard to tell ... he makes believe so we will not feel it necessary to remain at his side."

"Strange, that it should be him. Frederick said two of the wounds were enough to kill him, each in itself. I don't know how he has lived so long."

Laura was silent, and then she said, "Irina... I like this ... the desert, the fire, the stars. If the situation was different, I could love it."

"So could I. Once when I was in Africa with Father, we were camped away out on the veldt, just a small group of us. It was a lovely night. I remember him saying that he would like never to go back."

"It all seems far away." Laura looked thoughtfully at her friend. "You've changed, Irina. It seems so impossible that it was just the day before yesterday that all this started." "Your father will be worried."

"I hope we'll be safe before he hears about it. He didn't want me to come." She glanced at Irina again. "Father didn't take to Frederick. Thought he was too stiff necked."

"He isn't, really. And he's lost a lot of what he did have, these past few days."

"Are you going to marry him?"

Irina seated herself on the log near the fire and care fully spread her skirt over her knees. "I don't know, Laura. I really don't know.".

"Shalako?" "That's silly, isn't it? We come from different worlds, we live in different ways, we think differently. The whole idea is absurd."

"With a man like that? Not to me, it isn't. Anyway, I've heard you say many times that you had no desire to live in London or Paris ... that you wanted an estate in the country. So why not a cattle ranch in New Mexico or Arizona?"

"That's foolish, and you know it."

The night was cool and, above all, singularly still. Beyond the light of the fire the night was a curtain of darkness.

Count Henri came in from the edge of camp and poured a cup of coffee. "It is too quiet," he said, "I don't like it. It reminds me too much of Africa."

He sipped his coffee. "They are out there, I think. I think they are very close to us."

"I wish Shalako would come back," Laura said. He glanced at her. "So do I, Laura.

So do I." Shalako Carlin bedded down on a patch of sparse, coarse grass well hidden by brush back of the ruined adobe cabin.

Originally built of rock, the cabin had evidently fallen to ruin, and then had been rebuilt with adobe bricks, and had now fallen to ruin again. But despite the shelter offered he had no intention of being caught within the walls, preferring freedom of movement.

Mohammet, stripped of saddle and bridle, was picketed on the rank grass of a slope just behind him. The night was still, and Shalako was dead tired ... he fell asleep at once.

An owl hooted from a nearby tree, and a pack rat cowered at the sound, then sniffed curiously in the direction of the sleeping man.

Out in the forest a pine cone fell and the owl took off on lazy wings through the dark aisles of the scattered trees. The pack rat, relieved, moved hesitantly from the shelter of the cat's-claw, circled the small clearing and disappeared on some nocturnal business of his own. A bat poised, fluttering dark wings in the air above the ruin, then swooped off, pursuing insects, and there was no other sound but the horse cropping grass. The stars hung their bright lanterns in a dark, still sky and the slight breeze carried a scent of pines along the high ridges.

A long time later, and far out among the trees, sound suddenly seemed to hesitate, and then for a moment there was silence. The stallion's head came up alertly, ears pricked, and the man Shalako opened his eyes, and lay still, listening.

His guns were at hand, but he ignored them, reaching for his knife. He held the blade ready, cutting edge turned up ... only a fool stabs down with a knife. There is too much bone structure in the upper part of the body... unless a man can find that particular vital spot. Holding the knife low, edge upward, one strikes at the soft parts of the body where no bones deflect the blow.

No sound ... time went by, but he did not relax. Suddenly, the stallion drew back sharply and snorted, and Shalako smelled the Apache. It was a smell of woodsmoke, buckskin, and something acrid, strange.. . a shadow moved ... lunged.

Shalako rolled to his knees. Unable to judge the position of the Indian in the darkness, he risked everything and slashed across in front of him, and felt the tip of the blade catch flesh. There was a muffled gasp and an iron grip seized his wrist.

Using the powerful muscles of his bent legs, Shalako straightened sharply, jerking the arm up and tearing it free. Instantly he smashed down with a closed fist and felt it thud against flesh.

The Indian lunged at him, his knife point tearing Shalako's shirt. Shalako lunged in turn, missed, and the Indian seized his knife arm and tried to throw him over his shoulder. Instantly Shalako threw himself in the direction the Indian was throwing him, bunching his knees under him.

The sudden moving weight threw the Indian forward off balance and he fell on his face with Shalako's knees riding his shoulders. Slippery as greased flesh can be, the Apache slid from under Shalako and came to his feet. Shalako rose with him and thrust home with the knife.

The blade took the Indian under the arm and went all the way in, and Shalako felt the warm gush of blood over his hand as he drew back on the knife. The Indian uttered a low cry and fell backward.

Shalako stepped back, catching his breath, and talking softly to quiet the frightened stallion. He stood perfectly still, watching the dark blotch where the Apache had fallen. He could hear the rasping gasps of the dying man, but he was not trusting the sound, and he waited.

Apparently the lone Apache had been left without a horse by some action of which Shalako knew nothing, and had hoped to get both horse and weapons from him. Yet it worried him that the Indian should be here. Had he been followed? Or had the Indian come upon his trail by accident?

After several minutes had passed and he heard no further sounds, he dropped to his haunches and struck a shielded match.

The Apache was short, powerfully-built-and dead. That first, blind blow with the knife had caught the Indian's shoulder, then cut across his throat, tearing a razor like gash that covered the Apache with blood.

A relatively new breech-loading Springfield lay on the ground nearby, an Army rifle.

The Apache wore an Army belt and an ammunition pouch. The rifle stock was hand buffed and could not have been out of the soldier's hands for more than a few days, perhaps only a few hours. That stock had been given loving care by a man who appreciated fine wood, something with which no Apache would have bothered.

So the Army was in the field, and probably not far away. If so the possibilities were that Chato was in full flight toward the border, but avid for rapine and murder, hungry for horses and loot.

Untying the stallion, he saddled up, and, sliding the extra rifle into the boot, he checked the loads on his own Winchester '76. The first gray was lightening the eastern sky when he crossed the saddle into Wolf Canyon.

Ten miles to the south and east, Bosky Fulton turned on his side and opened his eyes.

He got up, absentmindedly brushing needles and grass from his clothing, while listening for what the pre-dawn had to offer. It was time to be moving.

He was irritable and worried. The country would be alive with Indians, and he decided his best route would be toward Stein's Pass. Yet he was uneasy, and even after he had saddled up, he did not at once move out.

For the first time he had something to lose, and it worried him. He had money and jewels enough to make him a moderately rich man, and he intended a wild time in San Francisco.

He was somewhere southeast and mostly east of Animas Peak, and the thought of crossing Animas Valley worried him. The valley was a wide-open route south into Sonora and Chihuahua, and a logical route for the Apaches to take. The trail near which he had bedded down led right into the Animas Valley.

He waited a long time, then led his horse forward and waited again. After a while he stepped into the saddle and rode out into the narrow trail. He was somewhere near Walnut Creek, and there was still some distance to go be fore reaching the valley.

Bosky Fulton scratched warily under his arm and looked cautiously around. He had a way of turning his head without moving his shoulders, dropping his head forward and looking around over his shoulder from the corners of his eyes. He was worried and wary. He recalled all too well a time when he had found two teamsters tied head down to the rear wheels of their wagon. Low fires had been built under their heads.

It was an old Apache trick.

Scared? He was scared all right. No man in his right mind rode through Apache country and was not scared. He was scared, all right, but he was ready, too.

That Carnarvon woman ... he thought of her suddenly. By the Lord Harry he'd like to There would be plenty of women in San Francisco and with the money he had, he could pick and choose. He walked his horse slowly forward, touching his dry lips with his tongue.

Some miles ahead of him, the Apache known as Tats ah-das-ay-go slid down from the rocks to a point behind the ruined cabin. He found where the stallion had been tied, and he found the dead Apache.

He stared down at him with contempt. He had at tacked a sleeping man and had been killed!

Tats-ah-das-ay-go squatted on his heels against the cabin wall and smoked, and as he smoked he read the sign left by Shalako and the Apache with the ease of a man reading print.

The white-eyes had awakened, or had been lying awake. He could see where his knees had been and where his feet had pushed off as he lunged, and the fighting had taken place a few feet away from where the white-eyes had slept.

He left small trail, this white-eyes, and he slept lightly. He was a warrior, and he wore moccasins, Apache moccasins ... perhaps he had lived among them? To kill such a man would be a great feat.

Tats-ah-das-ay-go got to his feet and returned among the rocks to his horse.

Yes, a great feat....

Chapter
Four.

I t was noon of April 22, two days after the San Carlos fight, that Lieutenant Hall cut the trail of the von Hallstatt party.

Trailing the wagons, the lieutenant came upon the deserted ranch where the remains of the fight lay all about. His scouts worked out a puzzling story that to some extent coincided with his own observations.

There had been a fight with the Apaches; one dead Apache was found within the wagon circle. Apparently the defense had been successful for the wagons had not been looted by Apaches ... that was obvious from things left be hind.

Whoever looted them had made a systematic search for valuables, passing up many things any Apache would have taken. And the Apaches would have carried away the body of their dead warrior.

"Two parties left here, Lieutenant. The first party with most of the horses and one wagon headed south toward the border. The other bunch with two horses and one man carried in a stretcher-wounded man, most likely-cut off southwest."

He indicated the broken boards of an ammunition box. "I count enough shells for one used-up box. They made a fight of it, then there must have been trouble among them.

"The wagon had four horses hitched to it, and, by their hoofs, small stock. Riding stock, more'n likely. Four of the men with that wagon had flat-heeled boots ... teamsters, I take it."

"Well, what do you think?"

The scout squatted on his heels, considered a minute, then spat into the sand. "Thievery, that's what I think. That damn' fool Fritz come a high-tailing it into this country with a pack of no-account thieves.

"Rio Hockett never did have no brains. Nervy man, but bullheaded and no-account.